


A Quiet Place

by LadyFangs



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 09:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: Not quite a mentoring relationship, but the catalyst for one. Katrina Cornwell and Michael Burnham form a bond as they reflect on a man...a man who, for better or worse, has changed the course of their lives forever.A/N: I tried really, really hard to stick to the prompt, I swear. But this fic had other ideas. Please forgive me if I've just butchered your idea.





	A Quiet Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LizBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizBee/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [LizBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizBee/pseuds/LizBee) in the [july2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/july2018) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Post season 1; Kat mentoring Michael. And vice versa. (Gen, for preference, but shipping is really up to you.)

**A Quiet Place**

**For LizBee**

 

“Bastard!” The phaser to the bowl of fortune cookies was the only external outburst Katrina allowed herself in that moment. The sight of the last tendrils of the remains coupled with the smell of burnt cookie took off just a small edge of what she was feeling—enough to allow her to carry on for the moment. But barely.

She’s been clinging to the edge for the past nine months, and now, secluded in the Captain’s quarters on the Discovery, it all comes crashing down.

Hard.

Fast.

And it’s just too much. Too much hurt. Too much loss. Too much pain…

“Lights off.”

Katrina walks slowly over to the dimly illuminated vestibule in his quarters and reaches for the bottle of 1800 that’s half-full and sitting on the counter. Next, comes one of the two glasses beside it and she pours herself a stiff one before settling on the couch and easing out of her jacket, and boots.

 The first sip goes down like silken fire, smooth but hot when it hits her empty stomach, warming her body, making her eyes slip close and her head go back as the liquor works its magic.

Last time she sat in this place, well…

Thinking about it causes revulsion so strong it snaps the brief buzz and Katrina once again goes to her glass: taking several gulps to tamp down on the tears that threaten at the corner of her eyes and the rush of anger so potent it makes her hands shake.

“There’s a time to grieve,” she tells herself. “Now is not that time.”

But liquor is like a slow drug, and the more she tries to drink it away the faster and harder it comes.

_Oh, Gabriel._

Her Gabriel.

Damn you. Goddamn you.

Another drink.

She’s tired. Beyond tired. It’s like fighting a one-woman war and she’s on the front lines, trying desperately to hold back the tide with her bare hands—nothing between them but her and death. And death…

A single tear escapes and angrily, she swipes at it, and chases it with another drink.

“Till death do us part.” Vows spoken to others because it was safer than speaking them to each other, and sure enough, death—ultimately death—is what tears them apart.

_Because no Starfleet officer could survive over there…_

Like that makes it any better. Only makes it worse.

It’s dark in the Captain’s quarters, still and silent save for the quiet chirruping of electrical systems, yet Katrina sees clearly. The stars give off just enough light for her to see everything around her. Everything as _he_ left it.

Neat. Too neat.

Almost sterile.

Her eyes glance toward the sleeping alcove and she shudders again.

The bed made with military precision. No creases. No wrinkles.

But his _smell_ is everywhere.

He even smelled like her Gabriel.

Tasted like her Gabriel.

Fucked like her Gabriel.

And damn her she’d wanted so desperately to believe he was her Gabriel.

So many, many warning signs.

She’d almost lost him once—the sole survivor of a terrible, costly decision—the destruction of his own ship, that she’d been terrified to lose him again and argued, over reason—for a new commission for him.

All because she couldn’t imagine being without Gabriel. Not realizing she was already without Gabriel.

“Asshole!”

The glass shatters against the bulkhead as Katrina watches, chest heaving, breathing shallow, shocking herself with her outburst.

That lying, scheming, smarmy son-of-a-bitch NOT Gabriel who’d tricked her, seduced her, and…

_Oh, admit it, you WANTED him too…_

And _humiliated_ her. It’s what still singes. The man NOT Gabriel had seen her most intimate, vulnerable self, and he’d taken advantage of it. _Used_ her. 

_Well. Tough titty bitch._

At least he’s dead now. But there’s little satisfaction or comfort in that. Katrina wishes it could have been by her hand. Even in death that bastard still holds something over her. And it burns something fierce.

W _ell, we’ll just see about that._

A woman possessed, she starts to tear the cabin apart—couch cushions overturned, the bed stripped, drawers emptied—nothing. Nothing. No trace of a man with a past. No trace of a man.

Just that _fucking_ scent….

Her grief is turning to anger and anger feels sooo much better than all the other things—anger focuses her in the moment and Katrina—not the admiral, not the doctor—but the women, reveals herself, because she wants—no, needs to know. An answer to the question of why? Why her? Why here? Why now? Why everything….

Get it together, she chides herself, raking a hand through her hair before resting it on her chest and taking a few deep, steadying breaths. Focus. Think. Think.

A Gabriel is a Gabriel. His best self. His worst self.

She grabs the bottle and the remaining glass and moves toward the computer, sitting down at the desk and pours herself another drink.

 “Computer,” she says. “Search…”

And gives it Lorca’s password.

Files emerge, and she quickly skims and scans reading—Captain’s logs, personal logs. She’s seen all this before, during the post-Buran inquiry. There’s nothing new.

Nothing from the Imposter’s tenure aboard Discovery. Unless…

“Computer,” she says, “Search…”

Another code. The generic one assigned to all Starfleet captains.

More files.

 Mundane reports on ship functions, training observations.

Shit.

Nothing.

The imposter made sure his hands were clear and clean.

Frustrated, Katrina sits back and takes a swishes the brownish-gold liquor in her glass, one arm crossed over her chest…thinking…mulling it. What does she know about the other him? There’s got to be something more…

He wanted to go back home.

He wanted to rule an Empire.

She sits up.

“Computer, search…” she requests the files brought back from that other universe.

“Lorca, Gabriel.”

They open.

Katrina reads and gasps. The glass falls out of her hand.

 _He_ wanted to go home.

 _He_ wanted to rule.

 But it turns out he didn’t want to do either alone.

 “Computer,” her voice is shakier now. “Service record. Michael Burnham.”

.

.

“You asked to see me, sir.”

“Have a seat, specialist.”

Katrina wastes no time. She has questions. This woman has answers. And the admiral is determined to find out everything.

Hesitantly, Michael steps across the threshold. The doors to the captain’s quarters close behind her as her eyes scan the room. It is Spartan. Neat. Nothing out of place, well…no—not quite. She sees the glass and bottle on the coffee table. The jacket draped over the back of the couch. Katrina moves to sit, and Burnham comes, standing before her, uncomfortably.

 “I’d rather stand, sir.”

“Then you’ll be standing a long time.” It comes out harder than Katrina meant. Michael closes her eyes, a slight grimace on her face, and Katrina realizes she’s taking her anger out on the wrong person. With a heavy sigh, she says, “my apologies. You’ve been through an…ordeal.”

“We’ve all been through an ordeal, sir.”

“Please sit, Michael.”

At the less formal request, Michael does, taking the space on the opposite side of the couch. Here, she has a closer look at the admiral.

The older woman’s face looks tired—worn, soft wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, dark circles underneath, lips in a thin line. Michael imagines she looks the same way. Frustrated. Concerned. Worried. Exhausted. But there’s something else in the admiral’s gaze the specialist can’t quite place, as Cornwell’s sharp eyes fall upon her, intently.

“Tell me what happened over there.” She wastes no time. “He crossed a universe to find you,” Katrina tells Michael. “He nearly got us all killed in order to take you back with him. So tell me, specialist Burnham—what were you, to him?”

“I believe they were…lovers…sir.”

Michael’s words are quiet. And she doesn’t meet the admiral’s eyes. There’s something more, there…Katrina can see. Something Michael isn’t saying. She can’t say she’s surprised by this—a confirmation of what was suggested in the files. But it doesn’t ease the tightness in her chest that comes at the thought of her Gabriel… no…not her Gabriel, but a Gabriel regardless, in love with a woman NOT her.

 She takes a closer look at Michael.

The wide eyes, heart-shaped face, full lips, skin that hasn’t yet felt the touch of age...Katrina remembers when she was young, and beautiful.

_So he tried to cash me in for a younger model._

The thought is bitter—fueled by liquor and jealously and so full of pain it shocks her into guilt. NOT her Gabriel, she reminds herself. Not this universe. But still…she still knows how Gabriels operate. Even though he was a lie—he had the same sort of desire, tenacity and single-mindedness of her Gabriel—Michael’s words strike something deep in Katrina and she feels she knows…KNOWS…that the other Gabriel MUST have loved this woman. And it makes her think that maybe…maybe…her Gabriel could have loved this woman too.

But mine is dead.

Dead. And gone.

And Michael, for better or worse…is the only other living soul who may have known a Gabriel.

“Tell me something Michael,” Katrina says slowly. “Was he always so bad?” Even to her ears, it sounds pleading—like she’s hoping he wasn’t a complete waste. That she didn’t fully delude herself into imagining a goodness that wasn’t there. That they, as a crew, as a federation—weren’t so naïve as to look at the devil and try to feed him cookies, that there must be—something…in some way…redeeming about him. Because to accept the deceit so fully would mean…

At this, Michael looks up to face Admiral Cornwell, her eyes searching. This conversation is…different. Uncomfortable. But she too needs…someone.

Someone to talk to. Someone to confide in. Someone to say all the things that are in her heart but cannot be spoken aloud…and as the two women look at each other Michael realizes they’re both searching for the same thing. For a reason, a justification—something to make the burn of betrayal make sense, to make the sacrifice and the lies and the loss make some sort of sense. Because Gabriel had once told her that maybe “the universe hates waste” and all she can think of is what a waste of potential, of loyalty, of greatness, their time over there was.

And to lose a Captain like Gabriel Lorca at a time when he was their only hope for salvation, because— despite everything—they were so close. And they were close because Gabriel Lorca was their captain.

Hesitantly, Michael begins to tell Katrina everything. They talk through the night, each taking the other into her confidence.  It is through these whispered confessions, these un-judged secrets and shames that Katrina begins to see Michael Burnham through the eyes of a Gabriel Lorca who loved this person. And a Gabriel Lorca that existed, regardless of the universe, is a Gabriel Lorca she thinks, if things were different, she could have loved too.


End file.
